


Perspective

by swallowthesun



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Pre-Canon, Young Arthur Morgan, Young Dutch van der Linde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swallowthesun/pseuds/swallowthesun
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Arthur Morgan figured he would die young, but fate sends its rebuke in the form of a man who sees something within Arthur that no one else has.





	Perspective

On his back in the filth of an alley, Arthur Morgan realizes that he’s going to die, and it will be his fault. He claws at the man’s face above him, aiming for eyes, but the grip around his neck is excruciating, like the man is trying to wring Arthur’s neck like a wet rag. Arthur’s body thrums with pain as he thrashes in the muck of last night’s rain. His eyes burn with tears and pressure builds in his head. He digs his nails into the man’s arms and rakes them down, drawing blood. The man only tightens his grip, his gaze glued to Arthur’s face, his mouth pressed thin.

Black spots float across Arthur’s vision. His limbs are heavy and sluggish. He would have been fifteen tomorrow, and as miserable as his life has been, he doesn’t want to die. But when does he ever get what he wants?

“What,” an unfamiliar voice says, “do we have here?”

The pressure around Arthur’s neck eases, and he sucks in what air he can, gasping like the fish he’d once caught with his father years ago. “Help,” he croaks, but it’s nothing more than a squeak. He doubts he’s been heard by anyone other than the man trying to kill him.

“Disposing of thieving trash,” says the man above him. “Get lost.”

Arthur’s head lolls to the side. He barely makes out the glint of his knife in a puddle, a little over an arm’s length away. Beyond that stands a man, framed by the light of the setting sun at the mouth of the alley. Arthur can’t make out much more than the black hat on his head, and that alone is worth more than what Arthur could steal on a good month.

“What did he take from you? Must be something worth strangling a boy to death over.” Even his voice is rich, like those big city fellers that live in places like New York. Places too far east for Arthur to waste time thinking on.

_ I picked the wrong mark. _

Arthur’s head is light but at least he can breathe. The man above him—a baker with muscle more fitting of a butcher—lifts a thick finger in warning at the rich man. “If you don’t get, I’ll—"

Arthur grabs that finger and wrenches it with all the life left in him. There’s a snap and the baker rears like a bear, howling in pain. Arthur scrambles out from under him, muscles screaming all the way. His throat is on fire and he’s coughing up a storm, but he swipes a fistful of mud as he goes and flings it at the baker’s face. Then he finds the hilt of his knife.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The man is still wiping mud from his eyes when Arthur lunges forward and plunges the knife up into the soft skin under his jaw. The blade pokes through his tongue, on display in his gaping mouth. He gurgles as blood streams down his neck and runs hot over Arthur’s fingers. Arthur yanks out the knife and falls back, watching with keen satisfaction as the man slumps, both hands clutching at his neck as if he can keep himself from leaving this world if he just presses hard enough.

Another gurgle. Then the baker topples over and moves no more. Arthur is just as still, breathing in air that’s never tasted sweeter. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. The steady clopping of a horse-drawn carriage continues down the street.

Arthur spits at the corpse. “Serves you right, you bastard.”

“You sure showed him.”

Arthur startles, then curses himself for forgetting the other man, who is closer now, and edging closer still. Arthur gets to his feet and winces at the sharp lance of pain in his ankle. The baker had twisted it so he couldn’t get away. Now this man is blocking Arthur’s only exit.

No time for hesitation.

Arthur raises his knife and lunges forward again, pushing the pain in his ankle away to that neat little box he keeps at the back of his mind. The man smirks, and it’s Arthur’s only warning. He doesn’t know what happens, but between one moment and the next, he’s shoved face-first against the wall, his knife-hand twisted so tightly against his back he fears it will snap. He squirms, pushes himself up on his toes, bucks, tries everything to relieve the pressure, but the weight at his back is a solid, unyielding pressure. The man smells heavily of smoke and cologne.

“Let me go,” Arthur snarls roughly. “Or I’ll kill you like I killed him.” His throat is scraped raw and sore. He thinks his ankle might be broken. The panic building in his chest must be what a rabbit feels once it’s between a fox’s teeth.

“Oh, I sincerely doubt that.”

The pressure on Arthur’s arm shifts and the new angle wrings a pained cry out of him. He drops the knife, then puts up an even bigger fuss. He knows what’s going to happen next, can already imagine the man’s hand drifting lower in search of something Arthur refuses to give. He won’t let it happen without a fight.

“I’ll give you twenty dollars if you stop fighting.”

Arthur’s pause is one of surprise, not obedience. The man holds up two ten-dollar bills in Arthur’s line of sight, and Arthur thinks of all he can buy with them. Fresh food. A bath. A new pair of boots, or maybe a blanket to replace the ratty strip of cloth he’s been using.

The man slips the money into Arthur’s pocket. “I’ll give you another twenty if you don’t run when I let you go.”

The man waits a moment, lets go, then steps back. Arthur turns around. He doesn’t run. His mind is on a new jacket, a full belly, and a warm bath. Boots without holes and a blanket that traps heat. The man holds out a twenty, and Arthur takes it. Then he waits. Part of him thinks he’s in over his head with this strange and suspiciously generous man, and the other part just wants to see if there’s more money in staying a while longer.

“You doing alright, son?”

The question is such a shock that it slaps the sense clean out of Arthur’s head. “Excuse me?”

The man’s head tilts. His shirt, vest, and pants look tailored, and the chains dangling at his chest glint gold. His eyes are dark and assessing. He’s got a funny looking mustache. “Your neck doesn’t look good, and your ankle will start swelling soon.”

Arthur doesn’t like the way he’s being looked at, and no one’s asked after him since his father died. He doubts this stranger really cares, but at least he’s gotten forty dollars out of it. Time to go. “I don’t see why it’s your problem. Can I go now?”

The man settles one hand on his hip and waves the other nonchalantly. The watch on his wrist shines in the waning sunlight, drawing Arthur’s eyes. “If you want. Or, you could give me your name.”

Arthur watches the man watch him, licks his lips, then says, “Only if you give me another ten.” It’s ballsy, but the situation is all kinds of strange, and Arthur doesn’t think fifty dollars matters much to a man like the one standing before him.

The man chuckles. “You’ve caught me in a magnanimous mood,” he says, like Arthur knows what that mouthful of a word means. He holds out a ten. Arthur snatches it before he can change his mind.

“Arthur Morgan.”

“Arthur Morgan,” the man repeats, and Arthur is put out of sorts at the sound of his name in someone else’s mouth after so long. “How long have you been on your own?”

Arthur’s eyes dart towards the alley’s exit. He has a better idea of what the man wants now, and he decides he’ll play along for the time being. “Three years. My parents are dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Arthur doesn’t know what it is—the steadfast way the man is looking at him, the tone of the man’s voice, or maybe being fifty dollars richer—but Arthur believes that he really is sorry, and that doesn’t make any sense. “Why?”

“Because,” says the man, and he leans forward, the intensity in his eyes drawing Arthur in, too. “I believe in a better world. A world where boys like you aren’t left to fend for themselves after the government’s failed them. A world where a man without means can become a man of profound importance with enough determination and hard work. I believe that we are all equal under the eyes of god, and that one’s misfortunes shouldn’t seal their fate.” He straightens, nodding. “Life could have been kinder to you, Arthur Morgan, but we can’t change the past. The future, though…” He winks. “That’s fair game.”

Arthur isn’t sure what to make of that speech, but he thinks he likes the way it makes him feel. Hopeful, maybe, or something close to it. “Why’d you give me your money?”

The man shrugs, but the casual gesture doesn’t look so casual on him. He moves like the cougars that roam up north. “The same reason you didn’t run. Curiosity. And I see fire in your eyes, kid. I like that.”

Arthur doesn’t have anything in him that other people like. He shakes off the comment. “What’s your name?”

“Dutch. Dutch van der Linde.”

“That’s a real funny name you got there, Dutch.”

Dutch smiles. “You wouldn’t be the first to thinks so.”

They stare at each other. Arthur clenches a bloody fist and wishes he hadn’t dropped his knife. “Are you gonna try and kill me?”

Dutch’s head tilts, like Arthur is a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. It’s strange, since Arthur’s sure there are rocks with more depth than himself. “Do I look like the sort of man that would kill a child in an alley? After paying him, no less?”

“I don’t rightly know what kind of man you look like, mister. And I ain’t a child.” He expects Dutch to say something to the contrary, but the man only nods once.

“No. I suppose you’re not.”

Arthur’s exhaustion hits with a swiftness he doesn’t expect. He’s got another man’s blood on his skin, his ankle is throbbing, and the hunger gnawing at his stomach is bordering on painful. “Your gun,” he says. “Let me see it.”

He gains some satisfaction in the way Dutch’s eyes widen in surprise. A man wouldn’t involve himself in some back-alley brawl without some kind of protection, and Dutch was too comfortable to be packing anything less than a gun. And though he had pinned Arthur easily, he doesn’t seem like the type to prefer the tight quarters of a knife-fight. Wouldn’t want to ruin those fancy clothes.

“What for?” Dutch’s voice is calm, but he’s watching Arthur with a new level of interest.

This time, it’s Arthur that shrugs, though it’s with a confidence he doesn’t feel. He’s definitely in over his head, but there’s something about Dutch’s efforts that makes Arthur feel important. He’s never been important. “Because I don’t trust you, and I know you’re trying to get me to come with you. Give me your gun and I will.”

Dutch’s expression is unreadable. He stares at Arthur for so long that Arthur readies himself to flee, ankle be damned. But the corner of Dutch’s mouth lifts, and he reaches behind his back.

The gun, when he holds it out, is a beauty of a pistol, the type Arthur imagines famous outlaws carry. The metal of the barrel is an inky black and polished to a shine. The hammer and trigger are gold, and an engraving of a stag winds up the grip. Arthur tests the weight of it, turns it over in his hands and imagines what it would be like to fire it while on horseback, tearing across open country with the wind on his face and the warmth of the sun on his back. To Arthur, this gun feels like freedom.

“You a gunslinger, mister?”

“Of a sort.”

Curiosity, the man had said. Arthur holds the gun back out. Curiosity, indeed. “Lead the way, then.”

 ~*~

Arthur second-guesses his decision once he gets a look at Dutch’s horse. It’s a beast of an animal, with a coat as black as tar and a neck thicker than a grown man’s waist. There’s fur at its hooves and its mane is thick and wild. It looks like something straight out of a nightmare, and when it turns its great head to stare at Arthur, he half expects its eyes to glow red and fire to erupt from its nostrils.

Dutch rubs under its jaw. “This is Bully. He’s a mean old bastard, but he suits me just fine.”

They must make quite a sight, standing there in front of the general store. A dapper looking city feller, a demon impersonating a horse, and a dirty street rat with a limp. Dutch had made him wash the blood from his hands in a puddle and smear mud across the bloodstains on his shirt. He’s been dirtier before, but he still doesn’t like it.

Dutch swings himself on Bully’s back with practiced ease. Bully shifts a bit, tossing his head and flicking his tail. Arthur knows that if he gets on that horse, nothing will ever be the same. He has no love for this city, but there’s comfort in familiarity. There’s nothing familiar about Dutch.

“There’s, uh…” Arthur scratches at the back of his head. “There’s a few things I’d like to get, if that’s alright?” 

Dutch stares down at him. Bully’s looking at him too, and together they make a frightening pair. Wouldn’t that be nice to have around? He couldn’t imagine anyone giving him grief with them at his side. “Is it far?” Dutch asks.

“No, sir,” says Arthur, and he’s worried that he’s asking too much and that Dutch will leave him in the street because of it. “It won’t be but a few minutes with Bully.”

Dutch holds out a hand. “Come on up, then. You ever been on a horse?”

Arthur nods. None as big as Bully, though. He grabs Dutch’s hand, plants his foot in the stirrup, and lifts his leg over Bully’s back. Bully shifts again, snorting loudly, but he responds quickly enough when Dutch directs him away from the hitching post.

“Circle around the store,” says Arthur, keeping his arms light around Dutch’s waist. “Then take the first turn on the left.”

Bully settles into a quick trot that upsets the aches in Arthur’s body. He says nothing of it, instead taking in the sight of his old stomping grounds from this new perspective. He sees familiar children, skinny and filthy like him, looking up at him with narrow eyes and mouths twisted with something he thinks might be jealousy. From atop a horse, he gets a real clear look of what he must look like to other people. Does he really want to go back to that?

Arthur continues calling out directions, driving them away from the lights and sounds of civilized society and into the eerily silent pit Arthur has come to think of as home. The sun has nearly set, and most of the buildings are shrouded in shadow.

“Stop here,” he says, once they reach an alley. His alley. “I’ll be right back.” He clambers off Bully and hisses when his bad ankle hits the ground. None of the other urchins approach as he limps to the back of the alley and removes the plywood covering the crawlspace he uses to store his meager belongings. He used to be able to squeeze in there on rainy nights, but he’s grown too big.

He grabs his father’s hat, his pictures, and the little flower jar. He’s unhappy with how dirty the jar has become, like he’s soiled the memory of his mother. At least he can leave his stinking blanket behind.

Dutch hasn’t moved when Arthur returns, though he does stare at the hat now sitting on Arthur’s head. “Hmm,” is all he says. He gestures at the saddlebags. “Load up.”

Arthur roots around the bags a bit as he stuffs his things inside. There’s food, bottles, and money clips. He manages to get back in the saddle without too much fuss, and after he’s settled, Dutch leads them the way they came without a word of instruction from Arthur.

Dutch takes them the fanciest hotel in the city.

“Um,” Arthur says as Dutch directs Bully around back. The light in the windows is warm and inviting, though he knows people like him are  _ not  _ invited. Arthur’s stomach knots up with nerves.

Dutch dismounts and motions for Arthur to do the same. “No need to be frightened, Arthur. The owner and I are good friends, and you stink, if I may be so frank.”

Arthur is overcome with the sudden and bizarre urge to laugh. He’s been chased out of a bath more times than he can remember, even when he had the money for it, and now he was about to wash in the richest part of the city because  _ Dutch van der Linde  _ was offended by the smell.

“We’ll go through the back, of course,” Dutch says once Arthur has dismounted. “I’d rather not offend the ladies.”

Arthur couldn’t care less about ladies’ opinions of him. He waits as Dutch adjusts his hat and pats the dust from his clothes before he opens the back door, releasing a swath of light and sound into the night air. Arthur limps inside and feels as if he’s been transported to another world.

The wood beneath his worn shoes has been polished to a glossy shine. Just to his right sits a fat vase full of pink and purple flowers, and the end table it’s perched on is made of coffee-dark wood. Paintings line the walls; there are scenes of women in flowing dresses, their lips painted red; there are lakes and rivers in a shade of blue that steals Arthur’s breath away, and there are mountains done in such painstaking detail that he can clearly imagine the bite of the wind that swirls around snow-capped peaks.

Arthur feels incredibly ugly. He’s already dragged mud onto the floor and he’s sure he’s stinking up the hall. He just killed a man barely an hour ago. He doesn’t belong among people that behave like people instead of animals.

“Wait here,” says Dutch. He strides down the hall before Arthur can reply.

Arthur slots himself in the corner next to the flower pot and again thinks of running. He could leave fifty dollars richer and take what’s in Bully’s saddlebags. Maybe he could work up enough courage to leave on Bully’s back. He could start a new life somewhere, where no one would recognize him. If he kept himself clean and fed for a few weeks, he might look respectable enough to find work at a stable again.

He slips back outside. The night air nips at him through his shirt, but he’s not cold. Maybe it’s nerves, or the fire in his ankle. He circles around to where Bully is hitched to the lamppost. The beast is as still as a statue, a slice of night made flesh and bone.

“Hey, boy,” says Arthur, low and warm. Bully’s ears flick toward him, but the horse looks wholly disinterested. He can’t imagine where Dutch found a creature like this. It doesn’t look like any horse Arthur has seen, and he’s seen a lot of horses.

“Hey,” he says again. He keeps his approach slow and steady. “You wanna come with me? I’d let you ride as long and hard as you want.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out one of the sugar cubes he’d lifted from the saddlebags.

_ Steal everything,  _ he’d once been told.  _ You never know what you’ll need and when you’ll need it. _

Arthur holds out his hand, palm up, and Bully’s finally looking at him. “There we go. Got a nice treat for you.” He stretches out his arm and Bully meets him halfway. He can’t help the giggle that escapes him at the feel of Bully’s lips brushing over his palm. It’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

He pulls out another cube, then a third, and by the fourth he’s gently rubbing Bully’s neck as the horse blinks slowly at him. Up close, Arthur notices a splash of white just under Bully’s forelock.

“You ain’t so bad, are you, boy,” Arthur coos. He edges along Bully’s side, his hand trailing against the horse’s coat, and when there’s no reaction, he unhitches the reins and swings himself into the saddle. Bully bobs his head, and Arthur offers him the last sugar cube.

Arthur’s done it.

He grins. Fifty dollars and a magnificent horse. Not what he was expecting when he woke up this morning. It seems Dutch isn’t as smart as he wanted Arthur to believe.

“Color me impressed.”

Arthur whips his head around so fast his neck pops. Dutch is standing on the back porch, his hands on his hips. Arthur kicks Bully’s sides, but the stubborn beast doesn’t move.

Dutch is smirking. “Here, boy.”

Bully starts toward Dutch, and he continues toward Dutch, no matter what Arthur does. Once he’s close enough, Dutch pats his horse’s muzzle and looks up at Arthur. “I can’t say I’m surprised. If you wanted to leave, you only had to say so.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur spits, his anger bubbling up hot and sudden. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I ain’t dumb enough to think you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart, or whatever the hell you were saying earlier. For all I know, you’re wanting to clean me up so you can sell me off somewhere.”

Something cold passes over Dutch’s face, and Arthur leans back a little in the saddle. “I don’t appreciate what you’re implying, Arthur. If you want to leave, then leave. It’s as simple as that. I’ll need my horse back, of course. Keep the money.”

Arthur bites his lip. He’s messing up, but he doesn’t know what it is he’s messing up, and that irritates him. “Just tell me what you want. How am I supposed to decide if you don’t tell me what you want?”

“I’m travelling with an associate of mine,” says Dutch. “I think we’re in need of fresh talent, and you fit the bill.”

“What do you two do?”

“What must be done, and only that. We feed people that need feeding. Save those that need saving. Kill those that need killing. We have a lot to offer a boy like you, and I think you have a lot to offer us in return. But no more pussyfootin’ around. There’s a bath and a hot meal waiting for you inside. If you accept these things, we’ll head back to my camp for the night and you can decide what to do come morning. How’s that sound?”

Arthur rubs the rim of his hat between his fingers, tugging it down to cover his eyes. Dutch has a way with words. He could easily be lying and Arthur is just dumb enough to go along with it for the food, bath, and the hope that maybe someone wants to care about him. But he hasn’t met Dutch’s partner, or seen their camp. If he went, there wasn’t much he could do against two grown men. He knows what happens to stolen children, and he had promised himself early on that he’d do everything in his power to make sure he didn’t share that fate.

_ And now I’m probably walking into it.  _

His hands tighten in Bully’s mane. “I’m afraid,” he whispers into the still night.

Dutch’s hand lands on his knee, and he jumps a little, looking down at Dutch, his heart hammering in his chest. “There’s no shame in fear, son,” says Dutch, his gaze steady and calm. “I’m sure you’ve felt your share of it here. And while I can’t guarantee that you’ll never feel it again should you come with me, what I  _ can  _ guarantee is that neither myself, nor my partner will deliberately inspire it in you.”

“Why me? I’m a dirty street rat. I can’t read, I can’t write, I’m dumber than a sack of—" The grip around Arthur’s knee tightens, and he shuts up.

Dutch lets go. He pulls a pipe from his breast pocket. “Do you know what perspective is, Arthur?” Arthur watches him pull a tin of tobacco from a saddlebag. He tips some into the pipe, taps it down, tips more in, then taps that down too, all without looking away from Arthur. 

Arthur thinks of the little notebook his mother had given him on his eighth birthday. He’d filled that book with pictures. Squirrels, prairie dogs, flowers, houses—anything he saw, he’d capture in that book. Sometimes the angles and the charcoal and the scratch of his pencil against paper were the only things that made sense in the world. Oh, how he missed that book. “It means ugly things can look pretty if the angle is right,” he says.

The corner of Dutch’s mouth lifts again. He strikes a match against the bottom of his shoe, circles the flame around the bowl of the pipe, and puffs until long whirls of smoke curl about his head. “It makes one wonder if those things were ever ugly to begin with. I want you to think on that during your bath, Arthur.”

He speaks as if the decision has already been made. Maybe it always has been, from the moment Arthur first laid eyes on him. Maybe it was just fate.

Arthur lowers himself from the saddle, leaning heavily on his good ankle. “Sure, Dutch.”

~*~

The washroom is small and cozy. A full-length mirror stands tall in the corner, and a fancy wardrobe lines the back wall. The brass tub sits in the center of the room, a tray with sponges, towels, soap bars, and bread set on its lower half. Steam rises enticingly from the water. The room smells of lavender.

Arthur shucks off his clothes and kicks them into a corner. He grips the sides of the tub to lower himself in, and he can’t help the sigh that escapes him as the warm water closes over his body. He stretches his legs and scrunches his toes in pleasure, sinking so that the water-line is just under his nose. 

This is the best thing that has happened to him in a very, very long time.

For a while, he simply sits and breathes, his eyes half-lidded, his breaths slow and even. The water teases out the tension in every muscle of his body, leaving him light and boneless. When the water begins to lose some of its heat, Arthur dunks his head and comes back up quick. He grabs one of the soap bars and begins scrubbing.

He lathers and rinses his hair four times before he feels it's clean enough. Then he starts with his face and works his way down, scrubbing hard all the way. He only stops when the water is cold and red-brown. He rises out of the tub and wraps what is easily the fluffiest towel he’s ever felt around himself. After patting himself dry, he approaches the neat stack of clothes Dutch had left for him. He doesn’t know where Dutch got the clothes, and he doesn’t much care. He pulls on the underwear, a set of jeans, and a red collared shirt. Then he pulls up the socks and wiggles his toes.

For the first time in years, he feels clean.

He grabs his hat and turns to the mirror. The boy staring back at him is someone he doesn’t know. His cheeks are gaunt, but his skin is clean and unblemished. The water curls the ends of his hair. He looks like the boys he’d see about town, carrying packages, mucking out stalls, selling newspapers. Boys he once envied. They had work—honest work—and at the end of the day they came home to their families. They didn’t scrape and crawl in the mud or fight and kill for scraps a dog would turn its nose at. 

Was something so superficial as a bath all that separated Arthur from those boys? He knew how to work. He had skills other people could use. But he’d slipped up those first tenuous weeks after his father’s death, and the anger and grief had manifested in a fight with another stable boy. He’d been thrown out, and nothing had gone right since.

Perspective, Dutch had said. For so long, people had only seen one side of him. A side he was ashamed of, but had learned to live with. And now, Dutch’s speech has given power to thoughts that spur jealously within Arthur’s heart. His life has never been fair, and maybe it’s time to stop acting like that will change. Maybe Dutch is right, and Arthur needs to start thinking of the future, and what he can do to change it. And if the man sees something in Arthur that Arthur himself can’t see, what good would come from disputing that? It’s something he can use. If things don’t work out, he’ll cut his ties and run.

Arthur adjusts his hat. He’ll follow Dutch. 

For now.

~*~

An unfamiliar fullness sits in Arthur’s stomach as he clings to Dutch, Bully’s mad gallop taking them across the open plains. The inky black of night envelops them, and stars gleam above like drops of gold. Arthur rides with his head tilted back. He lets his eyes close and takes everything in. The ice tied tight around his ankle. The lavender that clings stubbornly to his clothes and skin. The flex of Bully’s muscles against his thighs. The smell of smoke and cologne, a scent that’s rapidly becoming familiar.

He opens his eyes and looks over his shoulder. The lights of civilization are but a wink in the distance.  _ Fate, _ he thinks. There’s no other explanation. Tomorrow the street urchins will awake, and Arthur will not be there. He will not spend the day begging or stealing. He will not take each step with the fear of a knife in the back, nor will he experience pain of hunger in his belly. Nothing can touch him here. He turns back around and lets himself relax, to simply be a boy that can finally breathe after drowning for so long.

He rests his head against Dutch’s back. With soft fabric against his cheek and the scent of cologne under his nose, he closes his eyes.

  
  



End file.
